


Aurora

by teya



Series: Becoming Light [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teya/pseuds/teya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stardate 54999.39: Aurora (rare): an early part or stage; a beginning. Following Voyager's return to the Alpha Quadrant, Chakotay and Seven spend a winter evening on Earth. Follows "Endgame."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aurora

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.
> 
> First Place, Astrogirl's Winter Magic Fanfic Contest, 2003.

She was standing alone at the console in Astrometrics, exactly where he'd expected to find her. She turned slightly at the sound of the doors, met his eyes, and smiled shyly, cautiously. Not the Seven he'd seen in his quarters a week ago—just before the Admiral's arrival from the future—the Seven bearing flowers and a radiant smile. But not the Seven he'd last seen in this lab either, she of the impenetrable shields. She'd backed away, pushed him away—or tried to. He'd held her in place.  _Stop_ , he said.  _Don't run_. And although he hadn't much faith in his own words or in their ability to persuade her, against all odds, she listened.

But what had she been running from? Some glimpse of the future offered by the Admiral, he guessed, and it didn't sound like a pleasant one. Some harm came to Seven—and to him. Whatever it was, she felt responsible. That much he got, loud and clear.

And he knew it was likely to be all that he'd get. They wouldn't talk about it, couldn't, already under orders to be silent. A temporal incursion occurred: the mission was classified, would be permanently. He was certain of it.

Was it a moot issue now anyway? That future no longer existed. Everything was changed. They were here, on Earth—or orbiting Earth, at the moment. Twenty-four hours in the Alpha Quadrant and he barely recognized the ship. The crew members he'd passed in the corridors on his way to the lab were strangers—personnel from Starfleet Command assigned to allow Voyager's crew a night's shore leave for private reunions—for those lucky enough to have family and friends in the system. He'd scanned the duty roster before he called it a day, and was pleased to see that most of them had somewhere to go, someone to welcome them home.

Still, after seven years with the same crew, he knew every face; it was unnerving to see new ones. Seven's presence here was familiar, and it made the room feel more like a haven than a lab—a calm ordered eye in the center of chaos.

"I could have bet that you'd be here," he said, standing next to her at the console.

"Are the internal sensors malfunctioning?"

He frowned, confused. It wasn't the answer he expected. He wasn't sure what answer he _did_ expect, but he knew that wasn't it.

"Why would you place a wager on my whereabouts?" she asked, clarifying a question with another question. It was so typically Seven, he almost laughed.

"An expression," he said.

"An idiom." She nodded understanding. "They provide color in verbal communication."

Was she teasing him? It was hard to tell. She could be deadly serious about the strangest things—as if she was noticing them for the first time. Which, now that he thought about it, she probably was.

"Okay…" He grinned. "Then the precise question should be, 'what are you doing here?'"

She smirked. "Is that a rhetorical query, Commander? I think the answer should be obvious: I am working."

He chuckled. "Chakotay," he said and took her hand. "I'm off-duty. And you should be, too."

She looked down at their hands, and then at her console, flustered. "I have a report to complete for the Captain," she said quickly.

"And I'm sure it'll be a stellar report," he said.

She raised her eyebrow.

He smiled. "Bad pun intended."

She laughed. The sound surprised him, thrilled him—he'd never heard her laugh before. "A bad pun, indeed," she said.

"Seriously, now. Aren't you meeting your aunt?" Her father's sister, a woman Seven didn't remember, evidently her only surviving family. His own in no better shape—his sister and his uncles on his homeworld, a week's journey away. Everyone else dead.

Seven shook her head. "Irene is visiting friends outside the system," she said. "She made arrangements to return when she heard that we'd arrived. But she will not be on Earth for another few days." She looked at him earnestly, as if to reassure him, to tell him not to worry about her, not to feel sorry for her. "I received a number of invitations…"

"Let me guess," he said. "The Captain, Tom and B'Elanna, Harry…"

She raised her eyebrow again.

"Same invites I got," he said. "Why didn't you go?"

"It seemed… inappropriate. They have not seen their families in a long time. Their reunions should be private." She met his eyes. "You aren't visiting friends?"

"I am. A friend of my sister still lives in New York. We're meeting for drinks later." He squeezed her hand. "Come with me. I bet you've never been to New York."

She smiled. "I believe that wager is what Mister Paris would call a 'sure thing.'"

He grinned acknowledgment of her joke. "Really. Come. New York is beautiful this time of year—all lit up for the winter holidays. We could do a little sightseeing, have dinner, and meet my friend later." He wasn't sure if she'd think the invitation born out of pity—or compassion—like the others. Wasn't sure about a lot of things, most of them not involving Seven. Some involving her.

He watched her closely as she considered his offer, her face calm, almost unreadable. Only her downcast eyes and the way her full lips slightly parted in thought gave away her vulnerability. He wanted to promise her… what? That nothing changed this. Them. They were still the same people they were yesterday, just in different circumstances. He wanted to promise her, but he couldn't. Not yet. And she wouldn't accept it, anyway, if he did. The simple fact of the matter was that neither one of them had the least bit of an idea as to what they'd do next. Or where they were going to do it.

He was about to push his case—the only case he had—and try to convince her to take it just one day, one minute at a time if they had to. Things would work out. But he stopped himself because he was afraid that it might just be wishful thinking on his part.

In the end, though, he didn't need to say anything. She met his eyes and smiled broadly, warmly, unguardedly. She nodded. "I would enjoy that," she said.

 

*

 

Seven examined her reflection in the polished metal side of a cargo container. She frowned. She tried to relax her shoulders. She adjusted her clothing—a pair of dark blue slacks and a lighter blue V-necked pullover that ended just at the curve of her hips. The sweater was a shade darker than her eyes. She pulled her hair back and fastened it with a clip at the nape of her neck. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She tried to smile.

She heard the doors to the cargo bay open, then Chakotay's voice calling for her. She took another deep breath and walked around the side of her regeneration alcove, into his line of view. He stared at her. He did not say a word. It wasn't the reaction that she expected. She wasn't certain what reaction she _did_ expect, but she knew that wasn't it.

"Is my attire inappropriate?" she asked. She cringed at her tone of voice, unable to hide her uncertainty and dismay.

He shook his head and smiled broadly. "No," he said, and started toward her. "Not at all. Just the opposite, in fact. You look beautiful." He traced the blush flaming her cheeks with a finger, which made her blush more deeply.

"Thank you," she said softly, looking down. She could not meet his eyes. She was unaccustomed to this sort of attention, and although she enjoyed it, it unnerved her. "You look… handsome, as well." It startled her a little to see him out of uniform—in a pair of black trousers, a beige sweater with an intricate textured pattern and a collar that covered his throat, and a black overcoat, at present unbuttoned. "I prefer you in red, however."

He grinned. "Never off-duty."

"Familiarity breeds contempt?"

"Something like that," he said.

She nodded understanding, although she thought the expression curious: for her, familiarity was contentment. She gestured to her coat, which was draped over a console. "You said that it would be cold in New York. This garment will protect me to negative forty degrees Celsius."

"You'll be plenty warm," he said. "It's not nearly that cold." He picked up her coat and held it open for her.

She raised her eyebrow.

He smiled. "It's customary for the gentleman to help the lady with her coat."

"Curious tradition," she said, but she allowed him to assist her.

The corridors were bustling. Starfleet had already begun taking inventory of the ship and debriefing the crew. Seven knew that a dozen Starfleet scientists had invaded Astrometrics as soon as the ship's computer had notified them that she'd left. It didn't please her. They had been polite and efficient when they interviewed her earlier, but she didn't like the fact that they had taken over her lab. Twenty-four hours ago, once again her life had changed abruptly and irrevocably. She felt herself adrift and alone. She would no longer live on this ship; she would no longer share her days with this crew, this… family. The future that would have been would no longer be. But at what cost? She would never know—and that disturbed her, too. She looked for order, some sense of purpose, but it seemed that she was grasping at light: there was nothing to hold onto. Astrometrics was her refuge. She knew who she was there.

Chakotay put his hand against the middle of her back, and guided her around a group of junior officers in conference. An ensign noticed them and they snapped to attention.

"As you were," Chakotay said as they passed. Seven could feel their eyes on her back. She glanced over her shoulder. They hadn't returned to their discussion, but remained in position, watching them as they turned the corner. Against her will, she trembled.

Chakotay felt it. "You okay?" he asked.

"I am anxious," she admitted. "The attention is disconcerting."

"It's been an overwhelming day," he agreed.

"With many more to come."

He looked at her but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"I don't know how I will be received on Earth," she said at last. "I was Borg." She turned away from him slightly, as if she could hide the cybernetic implants plainly visible on her face.

He stopped, and stopped her. She tried to turn away again, but he held her chin in his hand. "I didn't realize," he said softly. He pursed his lips. "Take the clip out of your hair." She did, and her hair fell around her shoulders in loose waves. He ran his fingers lightly through it, rearranging it to cover the implant under her right cheekbone. He smiled, as if pleased with his handiwork. "Got a hat?"

She took a knit cloche from a coat pocket and put it on. He gently tugged it into place over the upper edge of her cortical array, then stepped back, examined her, and smiled again. "There," he said. "You're incognito." He pulled a knit cap from his own pocket and put it on, covering the distinctive tattoo on his forehead. "And so am I." He grinned. "Just in case there's someone down there still harboring a grudge against the Maquis."

In spite of her anxiety—or maybe because of it—Seven chuckled. He looked at her quizzically. "We comprise a unique pair," she said.

He smiled broadly. "Yes, we do." He offered his arm and she took it. "We'll be recognized," he said as they resumed walking. "Our faces have been plastered across every viewscreen in the Federation.  _Welcome the returning heroes_." He put his left hand over hers and smiled gently. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. But if there's any trouble at all, we'll just beam back to the ship."

She nodded. He touched the panel to signal the turbolift. A part of her wanted to turn around right then, to return to her cargo bay, where everything was familiar. Safe. Where she could hold onto her old life for as long as possible.

She touched the implant under her right cheekbone. She looked at Chakotay. She could turn around. But the familiar came with a familiar price—loneliness. That existence was no longer acceptable.

He rested his hand against the small of her back, and she stepped slightly in front of him as they walked through the turbolift doors.

 

*

 

They beamed into a transporter room at Grand Central Terminal in the heart of Manhattan. A technician behind the console smiled as they stepped off the pad. "Welcome to New York," she said. "Happy New Year."

"That is the second person to wish us a happy new year," Seven said as they left the room—the first was an unfamiliar transporter officer on Voyager. "Is it the Terran New Year?"

"Apparently so," Chakotay said. He pointed the way to the grand concourse, then took her hand and smiled apologetically. "I didn't pay too much attention to the date."

"Nor did I," she said and shrugged. "We have had other things on our minds." She looked warily around the busy terminal. "Will there be a social gathering?"

"Yes," he said. "A million or so in Times Square." He cringed. Seven hated crowds—he hadn't thought of that. "They count down to midnight with a descending illuminated ball." He squeezed her hand and grinned. "We can steer clear. I've never seen too much point to standing in the cold to watch a light display anyway."

Seven stopped short as they entered the grand concourse and stared up at the enormous windows, her unease at the holiday apparently forgotten. "This is an ancient structure," she murmured.

"Almost five hundred years old," he said. "It was originally the terminus for the transcontinental railroad."

She scanned the room, taking in the soaring arches and barrel-vaulted ceiling, the contrast between the soft sheen of marble and mirror-polished brass. He followed her eyes up to the ceiling mural depicting the constellations of the ecliptic. "That's not original," he said. "The first two didn't stand the test of time. This is about a hundred years old. Painted by a Denobulan."

"The accuracy is impressive," she said. She looked around again, and then smiled at him appreciatively. "This is an exceptional edifice. And you are well-versed in its history. Icheb said you were a passionate teacher. His observation was accurate."

He laughed. "Stop me if I sound too much like a professor… or an annoying tour guide." He took her hand again as they started up the stairs to Vanderbilt Avenue.

And then they were through the doors and outside, and it was snowing—fat, heavy flakes that clung to their eyelashes and clothes. Seven stopped and looked around her, mesmerized. He was sure that his expression was equally stunned. They were here. On Earth. Had he ever really believed that they'd make it? He wanted to sink to his knees and kiss the snowy sidewalk, but he restrained himself. He was still—for the time being, anyway—a Starfleet officer. He tried for dignity, but he knew he was grinning like a fool.

He found his bearings quickly; the city was exactly as he remembered it. He took her hand, and started north and then east to Park Avenue, in order to avoid the crowds that he knew would already be gathering in the blocks around Times Square. Although it was midafternoon, the avenue was quiet—the sidewalks were uncrowded and the only traffic in the street consisted of a few people on skis and a hansom cab pulled by a dappled gray gelding.

Seven noticed the sleigh. "An interesting conveyance," she said.

"As I recall, they ban all contemporary transportation above ground in this part of town during the holidays. It helps keep the crowds under control, and gives the sense of being in Old New York."

"An unusual edict," she said. "The result is… quaint. But it is pleasant."

They walked north for a little while, then turned west along a residential block lined with old townhouses and ancient maples, whose bare snow-clad branches formed an icy arched tunnel the length of the street. He dropped her hand and crouched, grabbed a fistful of snow, then ran from her.

She started after him, but he told her to stop, then took aim and fired. The snowball exploded on her left arm.

She looked at him, obviously bewildered.

"Get me back," he said. "I dare you." He bent and collected another handful of snow, then packed it into a ball.

She crouched awkwardly, fashioned her own weapon, then fired it toward him with perfect accuracy, and although he tried to step out of the way, she'd anticipated his move. Her throw had a hook. She got him squarely on the chest. He laughed loudly and let loose with a shot of his own.

They exchanged a brief volley. Suddenly Seven stopped still, in a crouch, just as she was about to pack another missile. She stared at the snow in her hand.

"Seven?" He called to her but she didn't answer—just crouched in the street, staring at her hands, or at the snow. Or at nothing.

He jogged back to her, stood next to her, held his hand out for hers. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I have performed this activity before," she said, her voice small and unsteady. She looked at the snow in her hands, then around her. She sunk to her knees. "I was small. This size." She sat back on her heels. "No. This size." She looked up at him. "And my father was a tall man, like you." She shook her head, finally took his offered hand, and stood. She brushed the snow from her slacks and blinked rapidly a few times. He wasn't sure if she was going to smile or cry.

"Is it a good memory?" he asked gently.

The question seemed to focus her. She looked at him and smiled, although it didn't go all the way to her eyes. Her human eye was bright with tears. "I think so," she said softly.

He put his arm around her shoulder and held her close as they continued down the street. He thought of memory. He had seen hers, fragmented as they were, when their minds were linked just before they severed her from the Collective. He remembered her father's face and the angle from which she'd viewed him, as she'd just described. He remembered her mother's hands, braiding Annika's hair. He remembered running through a meadow where the grass was almost as tall as she was. He remembered, too, the terror and the anger of the last agonizing moments before she was Borg.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"I'm… I'm not certain," she said. Her eyes were huge, still stunned.

He held her closer. "When you're ready," he said.

She smiled at him gratefully, then nodded. They walked in silence for a while. It wasn't uncomfortable.

They stopped at a kiosk at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. Chakotay scanned the beverage menu, ordered two hot chocolates, and handed one to her. They stood close to a building out of the way of pedestrian traffic, holding their cups with both hands and inhaling the steam. Seven took a sip and looked at him with approval; she had a small daub of whipped cream on the tip of her nose.

"This is very good," she said. "Thank you."

He wiped the cream from her nose and grinned. "One of my people's contributions to Terran cuisine," he said. "Not as good as you'll get on Trebus—or in Chiapas—but it'll do."

He could feel the warmth of the cup through his gloves. He watched her face. Dear gods, she was gorgeous. She took a sip and got another daub of whipped cream on her nose. He reached out to wipe it away.

She smiled. "Perhaps I should have the Doctor adjust the length of my nose. It is apparently too long to gracefully drink this beverage."

He laughed, heartily. "Don't change a thing," he said. "Not even a micrometer."

He watched her face. She smiled, radiant. She was happy.  _Seven_ was fucking happy. Reserve gone, open, not a Borg shield in sight. Laughing. She was laughing. And so was he. Dear gods,  _he_  was happy. Ecstatic. He'd forgotten what it felt like.

He kissed her. He had to. Otherwise he knew he'd turn into a blithering fool. It startled her, she gasped softly. Then she kissed him back, long and sweet, on a winter corner in Manhattan, while the city rushed by.

 

*

 

Dusk was rapidly settling as they continued down Fifth Avenue hand-in-hand. Seven watched the lights blinking on, illuminating the building facades and the faces of the thickening crowds. Passersby observed them, and many looked again, and smiled.

"Why are they smiling at us?" she asked. "Are we recognized?"

"Maybe." He grinned at her. "Or maybe they're just returning your smile. They're contagious, you know."

"So you've said before." She wondered how welcoming this crowd would be if they could see her cybernetic implants; she wondered would they smile at her if they knew she was Borg.

She slowed as they approached a large stone structure of comparable age to the transportation hub they'd beamed into. This was more ornate, however, with soaring arches and spires that drew her eyes up to the stars. She stopped and stared. "What is this structure?" she asked.

"Saint Patrick's Cathedral," he said.

"What is its function?"

"A house of worship for one of Earth's old religions," Chakotay replied. "Christians believe in an afterlife where they'll live with their god—in the heavens."

"So their buildings are designed to draw one's eyes to the sky."

He smiled broadly. "Precisely," he said, and looked at her, a warm curiosity in his eyes. "Are you developing an interest in architecture?"

She studied the spires. "The mathematical properties are intriguing," she said. She paused. There was more, but she was having difficulty finding the words to express it. "I have often felt that ornamentation is unnecessary. Inefficient. However, this ornate design suits its function. It is almost as if it… speaks."

He grinned. "That's art, Seven," he said. "And sometimes, the simplest, least ornate design speaks, too." He took her hand and led her across the street and behind another structure, not quite as ancient, of a more modern design than the cathedral. He stopped as they approached a large conifer, 26.3 meters tall and adorned with tiny lights of every hue. "Like this. Just a tree and some lights."

"It has a significance?" she asked.

He nodded. "Many of Earth's cultures celebrate the new year near the winter solstice, when the days begin to grow longer. In climate regions such as this one, broadleaf trees and shrubs go dormant and lose their leaves in the winter." He smiled. "To the ancients, they appeared to die. Conifers retain their needles. They symbolized life continuing on through the darkest, coldest times, the hope that spring would come."

"A visual metaphor," she said.

"You learn quickly." His smile widened. "When this complex was built, Earth was in the throes of a major economic depression. They had a currency-based economy. Large building projects like this one put men to work so they could earn money to buy food for their families. The first winter, some of the workers put up a Christmas tree—a small conifer, nothing like this—to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of their messiah."

"A symbol of hope," she said.

"Exactly. The tradition of a tree on this site continued until it was abandoned during the upheavals in the twenty-first century. But when the Federation was founded, the people of New York decided to revive it and planted a tree permanently—a symbol of hope for the promise of a new and better future."

Her eyes were drawn up again. The stars were not visible to human eyes due to the bright illumination of the city. But she could see them, could even ascertain their composition. She watched the sky for a long moment. She felt longing. She found that curious. They had achieved the crew's goal, successfully completed the mission. They'd come home. But not her mission, not really. Not her home. Her home was there, in the stars.

She looked at him and smiled, hoping that he didn't sense her discomfort. "It is beautiful," she said.

A small crowd was gathered at the base of the tree. Chakotay put his arm around her and guided her through the throng toward the object of their attention—they stopped suddenly when they saw what it was.

A display of them, the crew of Voyager. No, not  _of_  them,  _for_  them. Holoimages and drawings of them, individually and as a group. Bouquets of flowers, candles, a number of children's toys, dolls, models of the ship. Messages to them, for them, written in myriad languages on paper and collected on PADDs. Welcomes from family, friends, total strangers. There, even, a message for her.  _Welcome home, Annika_. She fought back tears, but her effort was unsuccessful.

"Is this for us?" she whispered.

Chakotay blinked rapidly and nodded. "Apparently so," he said in a husky voice. He looked at her and grinned, and wiped the tear from under her eye. She did the same for him. They held each other close and studied the display in silence for a while. No one approached them. No one appeared to notice them. With her implants hidden by her hair and a hat, and his tattoo—so prominent in the images in front of them—hidden by his hat as well, they were merely two more anonymous faces in the crowd. She was relieved. She was certain that any sort of attention would completely overwhelm her.

"Hungry?" he asked at last. "Ready to begin an exploration of Terran cuisine?"

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, grateful for the change of subject.

"I know this great place downtown," he said, then chuckled. "At least I hope it's still there. Sicilian, a cuisine from the Mediterranean region. Rich, ripe, and robust."

"How alliterative," she teased. She smiled. "It sounds like an agreeable choice." She took his arm and they started back through the crowd. Seven kept her head slightly turned down, but still watched the faces around her—people laughing, exchanging smiles and greetings, wishes for a bountiful year. She thought of the display, of words of welcome for her, although she still wasn't certain that she deserved them. She was warmed, as always, by the small kindnesses that humans show one another. It was one of the first traits of the species that had touched her. She hoped it always would.

One man caught her eyes. She started to look away, but he smiled at her and moved closer to them. "Welcome home," he whispered, then disappeared again into the crowd.

 

*

 

The restaurant was where Chakotay remembered it, on Mulberry Street just off Canal, down a short flight of stairs and under a nondescript sign that read  _Giovanni's_. Although, as it turned out, Giovanni had passed on and proprietorship had fallen to Carlo, the oldest son. He was in the middle of an animated discussion with a waiter when they walked in. He stopped mid-sentence and rushed to greet them, embracing Chakotay warmly, then kissing him on either cheek.

"Welcome back, Commander," he said. He turned to Seven. "And the lovely signora.”

"I hope we don't need reservations," Chakotay said while removing his hat. He nodded encouragement to Seven to do the same.

"For you, never. And especially not tonight." Carlo took their coats. "We're honored that you chose to dine with us." He passed the garments to a young woman, looked around the restaurant, and then led them across the room, past tables filled with large, boisterous families and groups of friends, to a small table in the corner at the side of the fireplace. "This will be private," he said. "No one will disturb you. I'll see to it." He held a chair for Seven. "Favore, signora."

She looked at Chakotay and raised her eyebrow. He managed to swallow a smile. It was amusing to suddenly see these tiny rituals, gestures he took for granted, from her point of view. The ambivalence was plain on her face. Part of her wanted to protest, but part of her enjoyed it, too. Enjoyed the hell out of it. Funny, he would have thought she'd say that flattery was irrelevant.

She took the offered seat and awkwardly allowed Carlo to assist her.

He waved another young woman to their table, and as she poured sparkling water into their glasses, Carlo began to recite the night's offerings. Chakotay raised his hand to stop him. "Why don't you just choose for us?" he asked.

"Grazie, Commander," he said. "Vegetarian for you. And the signora?" He turned to Seven. "Do you eat meat? Or seafood?"

Seven looked at Chakotay. "Everything is real here," he said. "Not replicated."

Carlo shuddered at the mention of replicated food. "Everything served in this establishment is grown on Earth," he said. " _From_  the earth. My mother attends the markets in Sicily daily; she chooses everything herself."

Chakotay grinned. Seven was impressed, he could see it on her face. She admired attention to detail.

She pursed her lips. "I am as yet uncertain as to my feelings about consuming animal flesh. Although food animals are inferior forms of life, it seems… unnecessary." She looked at Carlo. "I will have vegetarian also."

"And may I suggest an Etna Bianco? 2374, an excellent vintage."

"Seven doesn't react well to synthehol," Chakotay said, smiling slyly. He knew exactly what reaction he'd get from the owner, and he wasn't disappointed.

Carlo looked at him with horror again. "Commander! We would  _never_  serve synthehol."

Seven smiled, her curiosity piqued. "I have never had a real wine," she said. "I would like to try it. I believe that a glass or two will not damage me."

Carlo smiled at her appreciatively, his eyes lingering on her face. She fiddled with her hair and turned her head down and slightly away.

"Scusa, signora," he said. "I didn't mean to stare. But you're a beautiful woman—like Botticelli’s Venus." He smiled again before he hurried away.

Seven looked at Chakotay. "Venus?" she said, as a steward uncorked a bottle of wine. Chakotay took the sip the steward offered and nodded. Both glasses were filled.

"Venus," he said. "The Roman goddess of love. A symbol of feminine beauty."

"I understand the reference," she said. "I did not expect to hear it applied to me."

He chuckled. "Don't sell yourself short."

She blushed and smirked. "Flattery, Commander, is irrelevant." There, she said it.

"Like hell it is," he said and laughed heartily. "You're blushing."

She blushed more deeply.

He held her eyes for a long moment, then raised his glass. "To beginnings," he said.

She raised her own. "To beginnings." She smiled shyly. Their glasses chimed as they touched. She took a sip and nodded approval, then looked at the glass in her hand. "2374," she murmured. "The year you severed me from the Borg."

"A very good year," he said.

"A difficult year," she said. "But ultimately rewarding." She paused, and then looked at him directly. "Do you believe in omens? Or superstition?"

He took a sip of wine, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't. But some of my people do." He shrugged. "It's the downside of religious traditions like ours. When there's no discipline, no consideration, when things are done from habit rather than passion, tradition degenerates into superstition—people begin to worship the supernatural rather than the divine."

An old argument with his people, with his home. With his father. He remembered a late spring day—he was nine or ten years old. It was early morning, and they were about to sow the first corn. He and his father stood in the center of the freshly turned field and Kolopak performed a small ritual, petitioning the gods of corn and rain. An offering—an ear saved from the previous harvest; a stone, worn smooth in water with a spiral design etched onto its face; a small pile of tobacco and other herbs that came to Kolopak in vision. While his father chanted softly, Chakotay squirmed.

_Why do you do that?_ he asked when his father was finished.

_I do it because my grandfathers did it. And their grandfathers before them._  Kolopak's smile was beatific, and that irritated Chakotay even more.

_There is no god of rain,_  Chakotay said scornfully.  _There's technology to control the weather, but you refuse it. Instead you chant to something that isn't there to give you a good harvest. It's backwards. It's stupid._

His father looked at him sharply.  _Only a fool—or a foolish child—declares something "stupid" that he doesn't understand._

Chakotay remembered the angry words, but he remembered, too, the smell of the freshly-turned earth, the plaintive shriek of a Treban hawk, and the purple color of the sky just before the sun rose over the mountains, and he remembered how heartbreakingly beautiful it was.

And then, as if the memories were twinned—which he supposed they'd be forever now—he remembered his last visit, after the Cardassian attack. The village he'd grown up in incinerated, the stone structures melted into glass. The scorched and sterile fields, still smoldering, hot underfoot. And Kolopak, gone in an instant in the firestorm, was a shadow in that field, there, somewhere, invisible to the human eye.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, felt Seven's eyes on him, and opened his again. He smiled, he hoped reassuringly. "Sorry," he said. "A veritable flood of memory…"

"I did not mean to make you uncomfortable…"

He shook his head. "You didn't do anything. It's just…" He frowned. "Maybe it's the proximity—what we left behind is suddenly… present." He looked at her directly. "I've got a lot to work out."

She put her hand over his on the table. "When you are ready to talk," she said softly, "I am willing to listen."

He met her eyes, honest and accepting, and he slowly smiled and this time he could feel it from the heart. A simple offer, really, the same he'd given her earlier—a willing ear when ready. And implicit in it something more—silence until then. He squeezed her hand. "You might come to regret that offer."

"Perhaps," she said, smiling gently. "Although I think it unlikely."

They didn't speak through the first part of the meal, through the bread and cheese, through the tomato salad. She sat with her thoughts and he with his, and still they were somehow together. He thought of his father sitting with the elders, for hours, not speaking, individuals and yet one—and for the first time in his life, he thought that he knew what Kolopak meant when he spoke of sharing silence.

 

*

 

The wine glasses were refilled and the next course arrived, which Carlo explained as he had the others—in exuberant, although not extraneous, detail. This course was called "pasta" and consisted of wild mushroom and garlic ravioli with a salsa verde—fresh herbs pureed with olive oil, the exact composition a recipe held in secret by the chef.

Seven followed Chakotay's lead, and spooned grated cheese from a small white porcelain bowl that was shaped like a rose blossom, then sprinkled a generous portion over the ravioli. She studied the dish intently, its composition on the plate, the proportion of sauce to pasta, the sprigs of basil tucked between the ravioli as garnish. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply and slowly. Then she cut one of the ravioli precisely in half with the side of her fork—it was a perfectly proportioned small pillow of tender dough stuffed with minced mushrooms heavily laced with garlic and basil. Her eyes widened when she took her first bite. She chewed slowly, swallowed, and looked at the plate again, awed. It was exquisite. Secret recipe notwithstanding, she had to know how to create this. She took another bite.

"You look like you're  _really_  enjoying that," Chakotay said.

She paused and looked at him, puzzled, her fork stopped in midair. "Aren't you?"

He laughed and took a bite himself, visibly savored it. "Oh, yeah. It's as good as I remember." He sipped his wine and grinned. "One of my favorite foods in all the galaxy. But it has to come from here. No one makes ravioli like Francesca."

"It is delicious," she said. She concentrated on her food for a few more bites before looking up at him again. "You know this city well. Did you live here?"

He shook his head. "No. My sister did. She was a professor at Columbia University. Many Words—the friend we're meeting after dinner—is a professor at New York University. They were academic rivals—always arguing—but close friends." He paused. "More than friends for a while… I visited every time I was on Earth. We ate here often." He gestured vaguely west. "Many Words still lives nearby."

"I am glad that he invited you to visit. And I am glad that you asked me to come." She smiled shyly. "It has been an enjoyable day, a needed distraction. Thank you." The words sounded inadequate.

He appeared not to notice—or to care. He smiled broadly. "You're welcome. And thank  _you_ for coming." He looked at her, curious. "A distraction from what?"

"From… everything," she said, and sipped her wine. "From contemplating my future. It is an anxiety-provoking line of thought."

He smiled recognition. "I've been a little preoccupied with that, too," he admitted, then shrugged and grinned. "I can give you the same advice I decided to give myself." He looked her directly in the eye. "Ask for the galaxy."

She didn't understand.

He took a sip of wine before continuing. "This is only based on my gut feeling, nothing concrete…"

"Intuition," she said.

"Intuition. I've had about as much direct contact with Starfleet and the Captain as you have today. But you saw the display yourself. We're heroes." He chuckled. "Not exactly the way I expected to return to Earth."

"Nor I," she said.

"Starfleet took heavy casualties during the Dominion War. The Maquis still alive were pardoned, former officers welcomed back into uniform with open arms. Nothing like a mutual enemy to force people to bury the hatchet—especially when one of the enemies wears a Cardassian face. Cadets were commissioned ensigns without graduating from the Academy. And still, they estimate another five years before personnel are at optimum levels." He smiled. "For the Maquis on Voyager—and for you—we couldn't have come back at a better time. They need us."

She smiled. His expression was earnest, and his ability to look at the situation from a positive perspective was effective. It calmed her somewhat. "Is this a recruiting speech, Commander?"

He laughed. "No. As I said, I don't know anything. But, as First Officer, I'm expected to submit personnel evaluations and recommendations. I'd like to know what you as individuals want." He shrugged. "Not that there's any guarantee Starfleet even cares what I say, but…"

"It is prudent to be prepared," she said.

"Exactly." He looked at her closely. "So, if Starfleet offered you a commission, would you take it?"

She pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. "Yes," she said. "I believe I would." She sipped her wine, then smiled. "You appear surprised."

"A little," he said. "I'd like to know your reasons—if you want to share them, that is."

She looked down at her plate, then at him again. "It is quite simple, really. As many have told me—and often not as a compliment—I am an individual of habit." She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Since we returned, I find myself… uncertain. When I try to imagine my future, I cannot." She frowned. "The Doctor believes that I should 'do nothing' for a while. At my leisure, explore everything that Earth has to offer." She met Chakotay's eyes. "Perhaps that would work for the Doctor, but I require more structure. Although I have often been critical of Starfleet protocols and regulations, I am familiar with the discipline. Without it, I am not certain that I would be able to adapt." She looked down again, her face hot with embarrassment. She didn't like admitting weakness—she wanted him to think well of her. But the masks she had perfected to hide her emotions on Voyager were failing her now, here, in this new environment. With him.

He reached across the table, took her chin in his hand, then lifted her face and smiled gently. "If there's anything I'm certain of," he said softly, "it's your ability to adapt." Against her will, her lower lip trembled. He traced the edge of her jaw with a fingertip. "You have so much to offer, Seven. Starfleet would be stupid to lose you."

She closed her eyes momentarily, almost willing to hope that what he said was true. "And you?" she asked. But as soon as the words were out, she realized that she was not certain she wanted to hear the response. It would not provide a definitive answer, and was just as likely to offer more questions about an incalculable future than she wished to consider.

"Would I accept a commission?" He shrugged. "Maybe."

She raised her eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong," he said. "I believe in what the Federation stands for. I always have. My objection was that they didn't live up to their own ideals. They abandoned the colonists and made a deal with the devil. And my people paid the price. My fight wasn't with the Federation, it was with Cardassia. Starfleet came after us." He looked at her. "I still believe that. I'm not repentant. We did what we had to do; Starfleet did what they had to do. It's done. It's in the past. I do want to be a part of Starfleet's future."

She sipped her wine. "You said 'maybe.'"

He nodded and grinned. "Even so, all day long, I kept coming back to a conversation we had on the Delta Flyer when we were stuck in the ellipse."

She smirked. "Not the conversation in which I berated you for stranding us there?"

He laughed. "No. An earlier conversation—the one about childhood dreams. And duty. And responsibility." He smiled. "I'm putting together a research proposal—taking another look at my tribe's history in view of what we learned in the Delta Quadrant…"

"From the aliens your people call 'sky spirits.'"

He nodded. "Did they stop on other worlds? Are there other planets out there with similar cultures? How did they evolve? Similarities? Differences? If I start in the rain forest here, spend a couple of years examining the artifacts, then go…"

"Exploring." She smiled. An old item of contention for them, less so now as she'd slowly come to understand his passion for it. As he'd helped her come to recognize her own.

He grinned. "Exactly. If they're out there, I want to find them."

"An intriguing line of thought," she said. She pursed her lips. "Could that be pursued under Starfleet's aegis?"

"I think so. I  _hope_  so." He smiled. "It would be nice to have Starfleet resources available to me," he said. I'm at the brainstorming stage with this, but I envision something truly cross-disciplinary—archeology and anthropology, obviously, but also exobiology, genetics, stellar cartography…"

She looked up at his mention of one of her areas of expertise, and considered how she could be of assistance, but she didn't get a chance to respond. His words, his ideas tumbled out one after the other, a stream of consciousness, uninhibited. He was excited, thrilled by the possibilities—the things he might find, the finding. She smiled. It was one of the qualities she most admired about him—his curiosity, his hunger for knowledge. His enthusiasm was… contagious.

She was about to say something to that effect, when Carlo interrupted with the next course. And afterwards, the conversation moved on to other topics and they put speculation about their futures aside for a time. She found herself easily conversing with him—a fact that astonished her momentarily speechless when she noticed. He was patient with her when she stumbled around expressions, trying to verbally describe things she'd never before needed to put into words. He didn't roll his eyes nor finish her sentences nor explain to her what she really meant by that, as others had. He himself was verbally adept, with a colorful and broad vocabulary, and a sly humor. He had a quick mind, a creative mind, one that made irreverent and sometimes illogical connections. He intrigued her. He laughed at her jokes.

_This is what it is to be happy_. The thought hit her like a blast from a phaser set to stun. In her mind, she touched her heart—tentatively, as one would touch a wound that had just been repaired—and it felt as if it had grown too large for her chest. She watched his face; she could not stop smiling, even if she'd wanted to try. Was this not exploration also? A journey of its own, one shared. He had said as much to her before.

Her future was wholly uncertain. She did not know where she would live next week or next month, what career she would pursue, whether she would adapt to living on a planet, what pattern her days would take. But she was, at this moment, absolutely sure of one thing: this journey she wanted to continue.

 

*

 

It was snowing again when they left the restaurant. Chakotay considered hailing a taxi, but Seven said that she preferred to walk. To tell the truth, he did too. The snowflakes falling were smaller and drier than they had been earlier—the night had chilled considerably, but it still wasn't unbearably cold. Streetlights reflected off the falling snow and the air shimmered around them. He looked to the sky and closed his eyes, felt the snow against his face, and he could almost imagine that he was being bathed in melting light.

He opened his eyes and looked at Seven. She was standing in the same position, with her face turned to the sky. She opened her eyes, met his and smiled. "Curious sensation," she said.

"I love winter on Earth," he said as they started walking toward Broadway. "But on Trebus, it's another story. Winter kills."

She looked at him quizzically.

"My people shun technology. There's no weather grid on Trebus—storms can be deadly. In my village, we heated our homes with wood fires. Pipes would freeze, we'd be without water. Animals that provided milk and meat needed to be fed and kept alive and tended to, even on the coldest mornings. Here on Earth, on the other hand, we walk in the snow because we choose to. When we get cold, we can simply transport to someplace warmer." He grinned. "When my father and I were arguing about my going into Starfleet, he accused me of trying to get out of working in inclement weather." Chakotay shook his head. "I told him that if the grandfathers had picked a warmer climate—something closer to what our ancestors had lived in on Earth—maybe I wouldn't have found life there so intolerable."

She looked at him and raised her eyebrow. "You spoke to your father forthrightly."

He chuckled. " _When_  we spoke. If I remember correctly, that exchange was followed by a week of angry silence." As his mother would say, they were both stubborn as rocks.

Seven thought about this for a moment. "Your sister—she did not stay on your homeworld, either. Were your parents as resistant to her leaving as they were to yours?"

He shook his head. "No, I paved the way. My father didn't say much when Kana left. Didn't argue with her as he had with me. But her leaving broke his heart." He looked at Seven. "Unlike some of them, he was a true believer. His faith was real. He sincerely believed that life was our destiny. The welfare of the tribe was more important than the individual welfare of any one member."

"A collective," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. He'd never thought of it in exactly that term before. "Good observation," he said. "In a sense, I suppose it is." He looked around at the shimmering air. "That neither of us followed his path… He felt that he'd failed." Chakotay listened to the soft crunch of their footsteps in the snow. He didn't say that maybe he'd failed his father.

"The research you spoke of," Seven said at last. "Perhaps I could be of assistance."

From talking about his homeworld to thinking about his research—she was more intuitive than he'd given her credit for in the past. He looked at her closely. "Go on."

"My data node contains a massive amount of anthropological data—including the mythologies from millions of species' cultures and subcultures." She frowned and looked at her feet. "Of course, the means by which I acquired it…"

"You weren't responsible, Seven."

She looked at him, then back at her feet. "Perhaps not," she agreed. She took a deep breath. "However I would feel better about possessing it, if I knew that it would be put to a positive use." He offered his arm and she took it, giving her time to organize her thoughts. "We never uploaded all of that data to Voyager's computer, although I am certain that Starfleet will do so shortly."

He nodded. "Good assumption," he said. "That's an incredible amount of data, though. I could spend a lifetime going through it. And even then, there wouldn't be enough time."

She smiled. "And I'm certain that you would enjoy spending a lifetime going through it, but perhaps we could narrow your search." She pursed her lips. "We could upload the information from my data node to Voyager's database," she explained. "Then, if you could narrow your parameters—perhaps selecting common themes that you are looking for—we could write an algorithm and run it against the database and the current Federation anthropological database, through the computer in Astrometrics, locating the results on both sets of star charts." She looked at him. "There may be a pattern. A trajectory."

He stopped suddenly and stood facing her, a broad smile spreading across his face. "Not just anthropological—exobiology, genetics… I could refine it with information I gather in the rainforest." He held her face in his hands. "You're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

"There may be no pattern," she said.

"But there may be." He kissed her. "Do I dare ask how long this would take?"

She frowned. "I'm not scheduled for a regeneration cycle tonight. However, I could program a short cycle—four hours should be sufficient—and upload the data then." She pursed her lips. "I believe that if we had the program written by 1300 tomorrow, we would have some preliminary projections by 1800 the following day."

"That fast?"

She shrugged. "The projections would be, as I said, preliminary. However, with 'luck,' you may be able to ascertain if a pattern will emerge."

His mind raced through the possibilities, the details he'd consider—he doubted he would sleep tonight. "Okay, then. Working lunch? Tomorrow, say 1130. Would that give us enough time?"

She smiled and nodded. "Yes, I believe it would."

They started up Broadway. He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed it. He grinned. "I'll bring the pizza," he said.

 

*

 

The tavern was already crowded when they arrived. Seven surrendered her coat and hat again and awkwardly tried to rearrange her hair with her fingers. She was certain that she didn't do an adequate job. This awareness of her physical appearance—was it vanity?—was becoming a nuisance. She took a deep breath, tossed her head slightly, and let her hair fall where it would. If others noticed her implants, so be it. Chakotay was right. She saw the glances from other patrons—they were recognized, even if no one approached them. Anyone who'd seen the news reports was already aware that Seven of Nine was Borg.

She took another deep breath, smiled at Chakotay, and took his offered arm. He scanned the tavern, and after a few moments led her in the direction of a table on the far side of the room. The man seated there stood and smiled broadly as they approached. He took a few steps toward them and he and Chakotay embraced warmly.

"It's good to see you, cousin," the man said. "I thought I never would again."

As they exchanged greetings, Seven studied the stranger. He was a large man, slightly taller than Chakotay and somewhat broader through the shoulders and chest. The sleeves of his dark blue pullover were pushed up, exposing strongly muscled forearms, the arms of a person accustomed to working with his hands. His hair was black, heavily streaked with gray, and worn long, falling straight down his back, almost to his waist. His face was etched with lines that appeared to be the residua of smiles.

Chakotay put his arm around her shoulder and presented her to his friend. "Seven, I'd like you to meet Rawe’wagana’. Many Words, this is Seven of…"

She took a deep breath and interrupted him, held her hand boldly out to Many Words, as she had seen the Captain do when introducing herself. "Annika Hansen," she said. "But my friends call me Seven."

He took her offered hand and shook it. "Pleased to meet you," he said. He had a strong grip and a husky deep voice.

At the same time, Chakotay looked at her closely, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He assisted her with her chair—she still found this curious—and bent over, leaned in close to her ear. "You could have warned me," he whispered.

She turned her head slightly and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "It was a spontaneous gesture," she said in a similar volume. She shrugged. "Seven of Nine seems cumbersome. Inappropriate. However, I will never be Annika again." She nodded satisfaction. "Seven suits me. It is my name."

He kissed her hair, looked her directly in the eye, and smiled gently. "It does and it is," he said. "It's a good compromise."

Chakotay took their beverage orders and went to the bar to retrieve them. Seven looked around the tavern. It was crowded. The tables were fully occupied and many people were standing as well. She looked at Many Words, who was leaning back in his chair, following her gaze around the room. He smiled at her. She smiled back, awkwardly. "I am uncomfortable in crowds," she admitted. She did not tell him that she was also uncomfortable with strangers.

He looked around the room again. "So am I." He grinned. "A little claustrophobic, maybe. Or maybe just because I come from flat land."

She raised her eyebrow, uncertain as to what one had to do with the other.

"Where I come from, the sky is huge—you can stand in a cornfield and there's no buildings, no mountains, no trees, even, to obstruct it."

She nodded. "Where I come from, the sky is 'huge' as well," she said.

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

"My parents took me into deep space when I was very small," she explained. "Then I was Borg. Then I lived on Voyager." She shrugged. "I do not remember what it is like to live on a planet for an extended period of time. I'm not certain that I ever did."

Did the longing she felt sound in her voice? He watched her face closely and she looked down at her folded hands. "You called Chakotay 'cousin,'" she said. "Are you related?" But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she cringed. She sounded as if she were reading the script from one of the Doctor's social lessons.  _Lesson Forty-seven: Familial Relationships_.

But Many Words did not appear to mind. "Very distant cousins," he said. "Thousands of generations ago." He grinned. "We're both descended from the indigenous inhabitants of this chunk of rock in the middle of the ocean on the larger chunk of rock in space. But, from the perspective of a galaxy, that's practically brothers." He nodded his head toward the door. "I grew up on my nation's land, about five hundred kilometers that way. Northwest, as the crow flies."

Seven was uncertain if a crow flew in a different manner than other birds, but she decided not to ask. She would research the reference later.

Chakotay returned to the table then, with sparkling water garnished with lime for himself and Seven and a beer for his friend. Many Words grinned at him, and then looked at her. "And I almost married his sister."

Chakotay sat down and raised his glass; Seven and Many Words followed suit. "To friendships that endure," Chakotay said. They touched glasses and exchanged smiles. "So are you and Kana over?"

Many Words shrugged. "It's hard to keep a relationship going when you live in different sectors," He smiled ruefully. "She hasn't been back to Earth since the end of the war," he said. "I understand her reasons." He took a long draught of his beer.

Seven saw a faint shadow pass over Chakotay's face. He studied his glass intently. Then a man bumped her chair from behind and she startled, looked over her shoulder sharply. He apologized profusely, and then hurried away.

"It is curious," she said after a moment. "People appear to recognize us, but no one has approached us and spoken to us directly." She looked at Chakotay and smiled. "Not that this is a problem…"

Many Words chuckled. "That's just New Yorkers. They'll pretend to ignore you, but they know exactly who you are and what's going on. That guy, he probably bumped into you on purpose, just to make sure you were who he thought you were. He's with his friends now, telling an elaborate story about the encounter—all exaggeration and lies." He grinned. "But he'll leave you alone. Unless you needed something, if you were in trouble. Then he'd be right there. They all would."

Chakotay nodded agreement and smiled. "We saw the display at the Tree."

Many Words squeezed a wedge of lime into his beer, put the remnants into the glass, and stirred with a finger. "It's been there almost four years, since the news first broke that you were still alive," he recounted. "I heard it on the morning news cycle, just after daybreak. For some reason it gave me an urge to go up to Lake Ontario, so I did. I stood on the shore for a while and listened to the water, thought good thoughts. Maybe even prayed a bit." He grinned and winked at Chakotay. "Then I started walking and found an eagle feather—unusual there. So I took it as some kind of sign and picked it up, chose a rock from the shore, and transported back to Manhattan, figured I'd leave them at the Tree." He shrugged. "I thought it was inspired. And when I got there, I saw other people already had the same inspiration. It was like a shrine. And I figured that was appropriate, considering the path you'd been walking when you got lost. So I left the feather and the rock there."

Chakotay smiled and swallowed.

"So are you still walking that path?" Many Words asked. "Exploring the mystic?"

Chakotay nodded. "Yeah, I am." He looked at his friend. "You?"

Many Words snorted derisively. "Nah," he said. "You know me—I'm not the religious sort. One or two inspirational moments in a lifetime are enough." He raised his glass and grinned. "But, hey, it worked. You were lost, now you're found."

"Technically," Seven said, "we were never lost. We knew exactly where we were and where we were going." She smiled. "We just had a long way to go."

Many Words laughed. He leaned back in his chair and studied her face. She looked down, self-conscious. He looked around the tavern again—it was almost unbearably crowded. "I've got an idea," he said. "Anyone got the time?"

Seven accessed her internal chronometer. "It is 2311."

He frowned, then nodded. "Just enough," he said, and started to push back his chair. "Let's go catch the show."

Chakotay put up his hand. "Not Times Square…"

Many Words grimaced. "You'd have to kill me to get me in Times Square tonight," he said vehemently. "And even then, I'd come back to haunt you if you took my corpse." He smiled broadly. "A better show." He met Seven's eyes. "A huge sky. How warm are your coats?"

Seven looked at Chakotay and raised her eyebrow, then turned to Many Words again. "It will protect me to negative forty degrees Celsius."

"That'll do." He looked at Chakotay. "What about you?"

Chakotay looked at him skeptically. "Negative twenty-five."

"Don't stay out too long," Many Words said, then stood and started across the room.

Seven smirked at Chakotay as they followed. "It is prudent to be prepared," she said as they retrieved their coats. He laughed with her and tousled her hair. She was certain that it did nothing positive for the style, but it did not matter. She smiled broadly and took his hand, and then they followed Many Words from the bar.

 

*

 

They materialized in an open field, windswept. Remnants of cornstalks poked up through the snow, which was frozen and crusty under their feet. Chakotay looked around. There was a small cabin about a quarter kilometer away—he could faintly smell a wood fire. The air was bitterly cold. He looked up at the sky. First Father was overhead.

He put his arm around Seven's shoulder. She smiled at him, then looked up and around her. "Where are we?" she asked.

"About two hundred kilometers due north of where I grew up," Many Words said. "Look." He pointed to the northwestern horizon which glowed yellow-green in an undulating wave that slowly began to grow larger.

"The aurora borealis," Seven said softly.

The wave of green light grew larger, added another ribbon, and another, and another, then exploded in shimmering sheets of red and green, purple and blue, above and around them. Chakotay had often seen auroras from space—rings of dancing energy around a planet's magnetic poles—but it had been decades since he'd viewed one from Earth. He'd forgotten how breathtaking they were: no wonder the ancients thought they came from the gods.

He looked at Seven. The colors danced off her face; her eyes were wide, her smile rapturous.

The aurora peaked and began to die down, and after a while, the stars were clearly visible again. Seven looked at Many Words. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome." He smiled. "I thought you might like that."

"Sure beats a manufactured ball," Chakotay said.

"Sure does," Many Words agreed. His eyes took in the entire sky, then he turned to his companions. "Where were you last week?" he asked.

They looked at each other. "You're the astrometrics specialist," Chakotay said.

Seven scanned the sky again. "It is imprecise," she said, and pointed to the southwest, about twenty degrees above the horizon. "The red dwarf there, plus thirty thousand light years." She looked at Many Words. "But it is imprecise."

He looked at Chakotay. "And where's Trebus?"

Chakotay grinned. "I can be precise," he said, and pointed to the constellation overhead. "We call him First Father."

"Like the Greeks, we call him the Hunter."

Chakotay moved his hand slightly to the left and traced another constellation with his finger. "That's the Peccaries." He pointed to a yellow dwarf. "That's the tip of Mother Peccary's snout. And Trebus is the third planet in the system."

Many Words stared at the star somberly for a long moment. "I can't believe I didn't know that," he said softly. He brought his eyes back to Earth and looked in the direction of the cabin. "It's cold. I'll head over and let them know you're coming." He grinned at Chakotay. "Don't stay out too long. You're not dressed for it." He put his hands in his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold. They watched his back as he walked into the night.

Seven looked at the sky again. "It is cold," she said. "But it is also beautiful. I'm glad that we came."

Chakotay smiled. "On Trebus, there's this spot near the top of the mountain overlooking our village. There's an outcropping there, and if you sit at the edge of it, it almost feels as if you're flying. On a clear day you can see all the way to the ocean. I used to go up there at night and just watch the stars, dream about going to them."

Seven gasped softly, her eyes on the star but her attention focused inward. "There are twin moons," she whispered. "And when the wind is right, you can smell the sea…"

He looked at her sharply, too sharply. Stunned. How did she know that?

Her face was stricken, panicked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean," she stammered. Her eyes were wide and darted side-to-side, like a terrified animal, looking for a way out of a trap. She took a long, shuddering breath, her entire body stiffening as she did. "I am sorry. It appears that I have retained a memory of yours from the neural link four years ago. I…"

"No." He turned her to face him, took her shoulders and smiled gently. He searched her eyes. "It's okay," he said, then shrugged. "I have some of your memories, it's only fair you should have some of mine."

"It does not disturb you?"

He turned it over in his mind a few times. "It's… different." He smiled and caressed her cheek with his gloved hand, then drew her close to him, his lips bare millimeters from hers. "But after all," he murmured, "we comprise a unique pair."

And then they kissed. He held her closer, could feel the muscles in her back even through her coat. A strong woman, powerful, now yielding, leaning into him, her breath hungry, insistent. A hundred images of her flashed in his mind, all different, all real. Unique. No one like her.

From the distance, over the low moan of the wind, he heard a cowbell ring again and again.

He pulled away, just a little. "Happy New Year," he whispered.

She smiled her radiant smile.

He held her face in his hands. She would not let his eyes go. Their lips were so close, he could taste her breath, faintly lime. "You know my grandmother used to say that what you were doing at the turn of the year, you'd be doing for the rest of it."

She smiled. "Is that a superstition?" she asked.

He shrugged and grinned. "Or a suggestion."

And they kissed again, long and slow and deep, and broke only reluctantly. "It is cold," Seven said. "And you are not dressed for the weather."

He nodded. The tip of his nose was numb and he was beginning to shiver. "And I know there's a fire in that cabin," he said. "And I bet there'll be hot chocolate."

"And I hope you win that wager." She smiled and looked up and around her once again. "We should go," she said. "The stars will always be here."

He looked at First Father and then at the red dwarf, and at all of the points of light in between them. So they would always be. Then they looped their arms around each other's waists and started off, together across the snow.

 

FIN

 


End file.
